


agoraphobia

by Dissonance



Category: IT (2017), IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, F/M, For Reasons Turtle Related, Grief/Mourning, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Richie Tozier is a Mess, Suicidal Thoughts, Thanks Maturin, showbiz
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-06 08:17:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21223469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dissonance/pseuds/Dissonance
Summary: Newly plagued with Deadlight visions of his childhood love being murdered over and over and over, Richie quickly finds himself lost to the world. What he doesn't know, though, is that nobody ever really dies in Derry, and that includes Eddie Kaspbrak, scared and alone under the remains of Neibolt.





	agoraphobia

**Author's Note:**

> This was really just my vent-work after seeing It Chapter Two, so I didn't really "try" to do anything special. I just wrote 
> 
> Alternating POV, by the way! Eddie's is set around a week into the future, while Richie's takes place pretty much right after they kill Pennywise :)

He sees the future.

His body is limp as he is lifted into the air, but that’s all he knows otherwise, his eyes are seeing something else, a vision. He knows it can’t be real, but it is, it is. Eddie, features covered in the damp shadows of It’s cavern, stands over him, a smile on his pretty face and eyes excited, happy, confident for once in his life. He can’t help himself but mirror his friend’s expression, and for a moment, it feels like it lasts forever, stuck staring at each other, something special shared between them. Really, though, it doesn’t last. It doesn’t last at all. There is a warm splatter on his face and blood trickles from Eddie’s mouth. An inhuman claw has ripped through his abdomen, staining the creme fabric of his shirt black in the faint teal light.

He feels wrong, and then he’s back on the ground, mind foggy. Eddie is standing over him, and he watches the scene unfold again.

It dies, but Eddie, Eddie..

Eddie is cold beneath his palm. His wide, brown puppy dog eyes are empty, blind. There is no life behind them.

_We can help him!_

Ben shakes his head, over and over, saying things that he can’t hear over the insistent thumping of his heart. There are hands pulling the grasp over his body, and he screams, his soft grip around Eddie’s neck broken and pulled away, the man slumped back against the craggly rock. 

_We can’t leave him._

The only person he’d ever truly loved gets farther away by the second. He pulls against his friends but he can’t escape.

_I can’t leave him._

He wants to die by Eddie’s side, clutching his face between his hands as the world crumbles around them. One last touch, one last time.

But, as was foretold, he is outside, and Eddie is buried. Neibolt falls with a finality he can’t begin to describe, and something inside him breaks, tearing a hole inside his heart.

When it finished, they parted ways, for the most part. Bev told him with joy in her eyes that she was going to live with Ben. They’d always been lovebirds, and he wasn’t surprised to see them planning to elope after everything they've been through. They packed up their things from the Townhouse and came downstairs to where Richie was sitting, giggling like the teenagers they used to be. Wordlessly, Bev sat her things down near Richie’s, and from the corner of his eye, he saw her expression, feeling pity gnawing into his back.

He just wanted them to go. Leave him to drink alone until he mustered up the courage to leave Derry, to leave Eddie.

He downed the rest of the cheap, bitter-tasting wine he’d found at the bar, setting his glass down and swirling on his stool to face the two Losers. “Headin’ off?” He asked, slapping his hands on his knees and and sucking all those dirty feelings from his face.

Bev nodded, messy hair bouncing on her shoulders. “Yeah, I wanted to ask-”

“Rich, are you okay?” Ben interrupted, eyes trained on Richie like he was a ticking time bomb. Richie froze under the intense stare of his handsome friend, knowing just how smart Ben was, how empathetic and just.. Smart. Smarter than Richie, like most people, but even more than the traditional smart- Ben knew _people_. He knew emotions, and he definitely knew Richie.

“Why wouldn’t I be, Hanscom?” He queried, leaning against the lip of the bar, ignoring how it dug into his back in an effort to seem casual. “We just saved this generation and generations to come from getting their life juice sucked out by a killer clown. I’m absolutely _ecstatic_, man, absolutely fuckin’ off my goddamn rocker.” He stood up, ignoring the dirty glass he was leaving behind, not caring about what happened to it. He plucked his overstuffed backpack from the floor and made a move to flee- though, again, he was held back by Ben. Pulled away by Ben.

“Ay, let up, Haystack!” He all but spat, feeling reckless energy pulse through his body as he ripped his arm away. His heart was beating quickly as he met the two’s eyes. “I’m a-okay. Just- what did you need, Beverly?”

Ben and Bev eyed each other and the former opened his mouth to continue, but Beverly got there first. Her smile was regular now, that polite little smirk that always made the rest of the losers melt. “Eddie’s things are still upstairs,” she said, like the statement was nothing. His own voice, for once, was caught in his throat, his jolly expression quickly extinguished. “I- well, we all thought you would want them.”

Numbly, he nodded. He’d already forgotten Eddie had been here- really here, his laughter filling the halls, his blood on the walls. A spark was quickly ignited in his heart as he gazed up the stairs, imaging the dark haired hypochondriac walking carefully down them, hand trailing down the wooden railing, asking Richie what was wrong, why there were tears growing in his eyes. Because, unlike the rest of the losers, Eddie could always see passed his glasses.

“Take care, Rich,” Bev whispered as she walked passed him, standing on her toes and planting a soft, meek kiss on his cheek, before taking Ben’s hand and waltzing out of the Townhouse for good.

Richie stayed where he was for longer than he should have, before his bag hit the ground and he found his feet flying up the stairs.

He tries to forget the kissing bridge, but he doesn’t, even as he arrives back to his shitty little apartment, familiar smelling and somewhat tight hoodie cradling his body, adding to the dizzying fog in his eyes. The plane trip had been long, and he hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep during it, holding a dark duffel bag - which was definitely not supposed to be carry-on - close to his face. He left his own things in the car, feeling they were less important than the two chock-full duffles he found in Eddie’s room, stuffed with enough surprisingly-prescribed medication for a small pharmacy. That, along with the clothes and toiletries, made both bags achingly heavy, pulling on his sore joints like it was their job as he lugged them up the seemingly endless staircases. Around a corner, he finally spotted the beautiful number eight sign, his floor, and he trekked up the last few steps, finally reaching the top. He inhaled dramatically, dropping the bags and exhaling, nudging his glasses up to rub at his eyes.

The elevator dinged to his left, as if God himself was saying, “Fuck you, Richie.” He looked toward the sound with genuine disappointment in his eyes, seeing one of his agents, Charlie, glancing around with worry in his eyes. 

“That fucker was broken when I left,” he said, plainly, watching the elevator doors close behind someone that, before Derry, before Eddie, he’d considered a friend. Now, he saw Charlie and felt nothing but a void of emotion, like he’d left the real world behind.

At the sound of his voice, Charlie’s head snapped to face his direction, eyes wide in surprise and what looked like relief. “Rich!” He shouted, rushing over, his dress shoes pattering softly on the carpet. “Where the hell have you been?” 

Richie stared at him, tired. “Killing a child-eating clown from the cosmos with my childhood friends, y’know, saving the world,” he leaned against the wall, sighing, the reminder of the life he’d lived for the past 27 years feeling wrong and broken without the fog in his brain, the fog that had kept him from remembering Derry, from remembering It, from remembering Eddie. “A big step up from makin’ people laugh in a sweaty theater, huh?”

The older man frowned. “Are you high?” he questioned without any certainty. “Drunk? Is that what you’ve been doing?”

He shook his head, feeling a ball start to form in his throat, like a storm cloud swelling with rain. “Sober,” he forced out, putting on what he hoped was a show-stopping smile, one that would send the fretful manager away and leave Richie to brood. That wouldn’t happen, because he’d missed several shows, and that was enough for the entire program to drop him entirely.

Comedy was what kept him standing on his own two feet for twenty seven years, be it in securing connections or doing shows. It was the only thing he knew he could do right, and it was very possible he’d lose it, just as he’d lost everything else. 

Charlie seemed to sense the swirling pot inside of him, and his eyes glazed with concern. He started to notice the small things now- the subtle bruises along Richie’s jaw, the small cuts scattered across his flesh. He could see the gears turning in poor Charles’ head, and he just wanted to spare the man whatever bullshit excuse he could find that was more believable than an inter-dimensional clown spider they bullied to death.

He seemed to come to a conclusion, whatever it was. “Your glasses, Rich.”

He’d hadn’t even remember the crack in the frame, though the fracture muddled at least one fourth of his range of vision. He brought a hand up to it, feeling the broken glass, remembering the spatter of warmth, shock and regret.

Charlie moved closer, and his eyebrows furrowed. “Is that blood?” A gasp trailed from his lips, a sign that the quarry’s water hadn’t completely done its job as it was supposed to. “Richie, what the fuck happened?” 

The hallway changed to a dark cave. 

“Richie…” Eddie whimpered, eyes clenched tight in pain, mouth parted as black blood dribbled from deep within. Screams echoed from around him. “_Richie._”

“Eddie-“ he choked out, and he was back, bottom lip quivering, cheeks wet and fingers shaking. Charlie stared at him like he’d gone mad as his chest began to heave, tattered, broken noises tearing from his throat as his back found the wall, body sliding down until his ass hit the ground. Embarrassment flooded his body and set it alight, his hands covering his glasses in an attempt to maintain his dignity. He couldn’t stop fucking crying, and he felt so fucking guilty, ashamed, fingernails gripping his frames tight enough to break, even thought he’d cried on Charlie’s shoulder before, cause they were friends, old friends, but it just didn’t seem true anymore. They went back, but not far enough, not as far as the losers, but they weren’t around anymore, and he didn’t know if he could even talk to them if he tried. He couldn’t tell them the truth, but Charlie- Charlie knew him just enough to listen.

Charlie crouched in front of him, hand falling onto his shaking shoulder. “Hey, hey buddy, calm down,” he soothed somewhat awkwardly, and Richie nodded, wiping at his eyes and feeling like he was a kid again, forced out of the arcade he used to be comfortable in, soiled by the harsh words and quick rejection of Connor Bowers. “Come on, man, you gotta tell me what’s wrong. Who’s Eddie?”

“Eddie- he-..” his words caught in his throat and choked him, and he shook his head, not wanting to say it, not wanting to accept that he- he was _gone._

Richie knew that he’d been in love. He had since the day they’d met. He knew his love wasn’t right, wasn’t normal, wasn’t allowed, but he’d never been able to stop it, no matter how much he laughed at himself and others, no matter how many names of faggot, queer, flamer were drilled into his head. He wasn’t normal, he wasn’t like the rest of them. He remembered seeing Beverly, laying in her swimwear, wind toustling her fiery curls, and feeling nothing. The rest of the losers were practically salivating-- even Eddie. She was hot, he could admit, but it wasn’t like he wanted to fucking bone her, or Greta, or any of the other hot girls in Derry.

_Because you’re a fucking faggot, Tozier._

He swallowed, staring into Charlie’s wide, confused eyes, thinking of the way Eddie had crows-feet just like Charlie, making his skin crinkle when he laughed and when he smiled, when blood was gushing up through his throat and out of his mouth.

Something built up inside of him, and he could only sob, holding onto the man in front of him like he had to Eddie’s corpse.

_Eddie._

_Wake up, Eddie._

_EDDIE!_

The world sprung to life with a choking gasp as Eddie Kaspbrak felt his lungs inflate for the first time in what felt like forever. His body flew forward, back arching as his dry, aching throat was forced to constrict, was forced to _breathe_. The air tasted wet and dank, like a moldy basement, and Eddie’s first coherent thought was concern for black mold inhalation, asbestos, other airborne bacteria getting into his lungs. His second thought, though, noted how dark everything was. There was no difference between his eyes shut and open.

Trying hard to swallow, Eddie leaned his back against the damp stone behind him, hands numb as he rubbed at his face. “Hello?” He spoke, his voice coming out as nothing but a rough, gravelly croak, straining his vocal chords and making him double over in a fit of hacking.

His eyes watered and he glanced around, trying to make out where he was, but he only saw darkness.

Pushing himself onto a knee, something stabbed through his abdomen, and he cried out, falling like a fawn on its first walk. His face hit the moist ground and he sucked in air, breathing in, out, in, out, feeling panic begin to creep up his neck, fingers ghosting across the tears in his shirt, across the unbroken, perfectly smooth skin of his stomach.

He remembered, and whatever composure he held onto was completely thrown out the window.

“Richie?” he whispered, voice shaking, body unsteady as he once again tried to push himself up. He felt around the ground, the rough, stony surface, until he found it- Richie’s jacket. Still balled up, caked with what, even without seeing it, Eddie knew was blood. His own blood.

“Oh, shit, _fuck!_” He groaned, clutching at his stomach as another nauseating wave of pain passed through him. He grasped onto the soft skin and curled up, wrapping his arms around his middle in some stupid, last ditch effort to make it stop hurting. “Richie?” He cried, tongue tasting like cotton, body feeling as if he’d been lit on fire. “Richie, _please!_”

“He’s halfway across the country by now, Eds,” came a voice from his left, and despite the pain, he whipped around, eyes going wide and the fear of oh god, _they didn’t kill It, It was back,_ screaming through his brain. It didn’t sound like the mocking, terrible voice of the clown, but It never did, never when It wanted to lure you in.

“Get the fuck away from me!” He yowled, hating how snotty he sounded, congested with tears. 

“Eddie, it’s just me!” The voice echoed back, and like magic, a dull yellow glow began to emanate in front of him. He sat like a statue on the ground, staring with wonder, horror, and curiosity all at the same time as a man seemed to sculpt himself out of thin air, particles like snow and dust swirling together to form some sort of human-like apparition. 

There was now a seemingly-physical person sitting criss-cross applesauce in front of him. He was wearing a patterned blue shirt, tucked neatly into khaki pants. His face was soft, yet well sculpted, his curly brown hair just slightly falling over one eye. He looked older, older than Eddie had ever seen him, but he recognized him nonetheless.

“Stan?” he whispered, remembering Beverly’s visions, the one that had come true. “But you’re- you’re-”

A soft, sad smile grew on Stanley’s face, his little grin still somehow brighter than the light around them. “Dead,” he affirmed, dipping his head, as if he were ashamed. “I am. I- I regret it, I do, but I couldn’t have come back, Eddie, and I couldn’t let It survive because I was a coward.”

Softly, Eddie spoke. “You’re not a coward.”

Stan nodded. “Neither are you,” he mentioned casually. “I watched you. All of you. You _killed_ It.”

Eddie remembers lying against a rock, hearing angry cries, insults ringing throughout the cavern, and he could feel It withering. He remembers hearing Richie’s voice, vengeful and righteous, as his eyelids grew heavier and heavier, until there was nothing at all.

“I died,” he stated numbly, mouth hanging open. “I’m dead, too.”

“Nobody ever really dies in Derry,” Stan said with certainty, like he was prepared for this. “You’re not dead, Eddie, not anymore.” His eyes trailed to his wrists, and Eddie froze, knowing what lies beneath the gingham fabric. Stan sighed, rubbing his arm and holding it in his lap. “It wasn’t your time.”

_It wasn’t your time, either,_ he wants to say, but before he can utter the words, the terrible piercing ache began to fester inside of him once more. He gasped and doubled over, clutching at his stomach and balling his fist against the stone.

“It’s gonna hurt, for awhile. As gross as it is, your organs and stuff are still.. Putting themselves back into place,” he spoke, sounding like a shy, seasoned researcher reading from carefully written notes. Eddie found himself panting as the pain subsided, teeth digging into his cold lips, before he clutched at Richie’s jacket and forced himself to settle down.

Eddie furrowed his brows. “How the fuck do you know all this ghost shit?” He blurted, exhausted, before he could stop himself. “You’ve been dead, what, two days?”

Stan paused in his scratching and stared at Eddie, something sad, profound in his deep eyes. He blinked. “It’s been a week since It died,” he said. “It’s death granted your life-- but your wound is still working to stitch itself back together.”

“Are you- are you gonna be like that? Is your wound-”

“No,” he murmured, tone final, “I’m staying dead, Eddie.”

Suddenly even more scared than before, Eddie swallowed. “Is- is Richie gone?” he ran his fingers along the smooth leather of Rich’s jacket, something in his heart aching with a different kind of pain.

“Yeah.. He’s..” Stan shook his head. “He’s not doing so good, Eddie. I’m worried- I’m worried what he’ll do.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

Richie fell asleep, for the first time in what felt like years.

He fell down into bed with too many thoughts on his mind. He’d just come out to his agent. He’d been a blubbering mess of a man, and it just slipped out. He’d sounded like a child waiting to be scolded- to be hit, disowned. But, Charlie had only nodded as he continued his useless rant about Derry, about Eddie, how he’d been in love with his best friend for years only to see him die in front of him. 

Charlie, a good man, had led him inside and carried his bags. Richie didn’t have shit to eat in his apartment - grocery shopping was a thing of the past when you had UberEats - so the agent smiled and said he’d go get them something. He gave his mess of a client a blanket and told him to try to calm down, then promptly left, probably to tell the rest of the team the news, initiating damage control.

Richie had gone to his room after he concluded that one, he couldn’t keep food down if he tried, and two, he was a minute away from passing the fuck out and he did not want to sleep on his couch. That thing _always_ fucked with his neck.

The moment he collapsed against cotton sheets was the moment he drifted off, and the moment he was back in Derry, under Neibolt.

He stood in It’s cavern. Rubble covered the area, making it almost unrecognizable save for the ever present green glow, and the rock near the wall where he’d watched Eddie bleed out. Eddie wasn’t there, but a pool of blood was, and he walked toward it, not in control of his actions.

“Richie.”

He turned around.

His blood ran cold.

_Eddie._

Eddie’s brown eyes were gone, reduced to ooze dripping down his cheeks from large, empty pus-filled welts in his pale face. His bandage was gone, revealing black, dead skin, hanging and peeling like rotten lunch meat. Worms crawled from the wound, curling around his yellow teeth, their little mouths nibbling and eating themselves full, some crawling down his neck and mingling with the maggots wriggling through the gaping whole in his stomach. His left arm was completely smashed, bones and flesh intermingling as one, sticking out ripe and bloody. Roaches crawled up his torn pant-legs.

Horror crept up his neck like a shiver.

“Why did you leave me, Richie?” Eddie asked, clotted clumps of dark blood and bugs dripping from his cherry lips as he spoke. “Why did you leave me here alone?”

Richie stared, wide-eyed. “I didn’t want to,” he mumbled, throat heavy. “I wanted to stay, with you. They wouldn’t let me.”

“No, Rich, you left,” he lifts an arm to pull at the spoiled meat on his face, a terrible scowl adorning his ruined features. “See this? It’s infection. It’s rot. I’ve become my worst nightmare.” The slab slinks off his face greasily and slaps on the floor. “You hesitated. You froze. You had a chance, Richie, and you froze. You let it happen. You let me die.”

_You let him die._

“No, Eddie, I..”

_You. Let. Him. DIE._

He felt his knees waver, and Eddie grew closer, taking no steps.

“Eddie, please, _please,_ I’m fucking-”

Eddie’s face split in two with a violent _squelch_, cutting off Richie’s sniffles with his own scream. Blood and pus and worms and flakes of wet fucking skin flew forward and splattered on his face, in his mouth, leaving a metallic, salty, fucking abominable taste. Richie screamed, raw and brutal, as Eddie’s form grew and contorted, bones cracking and tendons ripping with guttural force, something new gushing from his neck, the torso of the stupid fucking goddamn clown flopping to the side, cracking the stone with the weight of It’s fall. Richie fell back, landing on his tailbone, mouth and eyes both gaping with absolute dread.

“_YOU LET HIM DIE!_” It mocked, giggling, pulling itself closer to him, half of Eddie’s body still morphing behind him, clacking and gurgling as it was dragged along. Tears filled Richie’s eyes as he scrambled backward, sobs and panicked breaths overtaking his body, unable to breathe. At the sight, It scowled. “Aw, look at poor Wichie Tozier!” Saliva dripped from Its fat, red lips, eyes glowing a terrible yellow. “Wittle fairy boy is crying! Oh, boo hoo!” 

Richie couldn’t help himself. The sobs just tore through him, and he shook his head, trying to deny it. It brought Its hands up to Its face, rolling Its fist and imitating him crying. 

“Boo hoo, wittle Wichie. You saw him die, and what did you do?”

Biting his lip, Richie hiccupped, shaking his head even more vehemently. “I f-f-froze,” he whimpered like a kicked puppy, before something else built up inside of him, deep and stronger. He stared up at the monstrosity before him, and screamed, “_I FUCKING FROZE!_”

“Ooh, y’know what’s gonna happen now?” It asked, a satisfied smile on Its ugly face. “It’s your turn, Richie. Your big showcase.”

There were footsteps behind him.

He whipped around on his knees, but Eddie, his Eddie, face perfect and beautiful, was too fast. He jumped on top of him, and Richie stared upward, stared into those dark, intelligent eyes, thinking he’d never see them again.

“Eddie-”

A smile settled on Eddie’s face, eager and proud. “I think I got it, man,” he blurted bubbly, and Richie knew what was happening, could feel it in his gut. “I do!”

“Eddie, n-” He tried to lean up, to push Eddie out of the way, but he couldn’t move- his body felt like it was superglued to the ground. He struggled, mumbling things he wasn’t even thinking about, desperation reeking from his flesh.

As if he’d never spoke, Eddie continued. “I think I got it for real!” he glanced to the side, before back at Richie. “I think-”

Blood.

“I think-”

It’s in his mouth, on his face.

Blood.

“I think-”

Blood.

It’s in his mouth.

“I think-”

Blood.

“I think-”

Blood.

It drips from his lips.

Blood.

“I think-”

Blood.

“I think-”

His eyes wretched open and he threw himself upward, skin glistening with sweat. His stomach ached and he jumped out of bed, racing to the bathroom, skidding to a halt by the sink before everything he’d had in the past three days slapped against the empty bowl. Dry heaves and tears follow, and his knuckles turned white against the porcelain, gripping it hard enough to break.

“Eddie,” he choked out, lip quivering, guilt seeping into his pores as fast as the sweat seeped out. He looked up, away from the spittle leftover in the sink, just barely making out his reflection in the mirror. Even without his glasses, he knew he looked like fucking shit. He was pale as fuck, rings under his eyes like no tomorrow. And behind him, he saw- he sees-

“Eddie?” He called, but when he turned around, no one was there. Back in the mirror, the figure was gone. He stared at himself again, at the bundle of colors that he knew were his. He swallowed, adam’s apple bobbing, and he gritted his teeth, sensations bubbling beneath his skin, screeching like a teapot boiling. He swore before his fist collided with the glass, shattering the mirror at his feet. 

He panted with pent-up rage, looking down at the red oozing from his knuckles.

He didn’t feel the pain.

“Be careful, Eds, this place is fucking death-trap,” Stan murmured as they made their way through the rubble, following the stench of Derry’s sewers.

“I’m aware,” He pulled himself over a particularly challenging ledge, grabbing Stan’s arm for support. “And don’t call me Eds.”

“Well, we’re almost to the first drainage-”

“_Fuck!_” Instinctively, he released his hold on Stan’s forearm and dropped Richie's jacket, his arms instead going to cradle his middle as his stomach, as Stan had put it, tried to sew itself brand new again. But, without his firm hold on something solid, his feet tipped backward and he tripped mid air, careening back over the steep, craggly hill he’d just carefully climbed up.

Stan grabbed his foot and Eddie’s body swung over the edge, squealing in fear and curling his arms around his head. Thank god he did. Less than a second after, his elbows collided roughly with the stone, where his skull would’ve been if he hadn’t reacted.

“You’re an idiot!”

Eddie swallowed, eyes clenched shut, blood rushing to his head as he hung upside down. “Please pull me up,” he pleaded softly, feeling his hair dangling from his scalp, strands tickling against his knuckles. He felt himself swaying with his own body weight, and his heart was sinking into his throat. “Please, Stan.”

Stanley cleared his throat and lugged Eddie’s frail form back to safety. Eddie pushed himself onto his knees, face red, knowing Stan’s eyes were on his. He swallowed, scrambling forward, careful as he bent down and plucked the familiar leather off from the stone.

“When’s that gonna stop?” Eddie all but whined, quiet. 

Stan sighed. “Whenever it decides to,” this time, he’s the one to grab Eddie by the wrist, helping him to his feet and not letting go. “If it hurts again, hold onto me. Don’t let go, squeeze me as hard as you need to, I don’t fucking care.”

Leaning into Stan’s strikingly familiar stature, he nods, reluctantly.

“Eddie, buddy, don’t worry. It doesn’t hurt, I’m fuckin’ dead, man.”

As the made their way through the undefined, hazardous tunnels of what remained of It’s lair, the pain came back five times, usually when Eddie was exerting himself, walking too fast, climbing, even fucking bending over. He felt like an old man with a back problem, but he knew he wasn’t, and that this was much worse than normal shit like that. Stan stayed quiet most of the time, save for his soft, comforting words during each wave of nausea and pain, before they arrived at what looked to be an avalanche of stones from a gaping hole in the rough ceiling above. Though, paying closer attention, Eddie could make out different things, things he hadn’t seen anywhere else down there- wood, real bricks. A droplet of hope plopped into his heart and he smiled.

“That’s all the way from Neibolt..” Stan muttered. “It’s completely collapsed. You’d get crushed if you even tried to climb up there.”

His smile was replaced by a frown. “Fuck,” he whispered, eyebrows furrowing. He stared up at where he could just barely make out what, a long time ago, been a well, now almost completely submerged by rubble, dust, debris. “H-.. How do we get out, then?”

Stan doesn’t respond. He just turns, and keeps walking. Eddie quickly follows.

In what feels like mere minutes, they arrive at what looks to be the most dangerous entrance to the sewers Eddie has ever seen, and that’s saying a lot. Metal bars hang from what you could barely call the ceiling, lodged in chunks of rock and concrete that looked just seconds from breaking off and falling on your head. The terrible, rank smell of Derry excrement emanated from the gaping hole, sounds of water running and dripping sending chills down his spin. Eddie paled at the sights, frowning and hesitating beside the small stream of greywater that ran through the rubble outside the entrance.

Stan was standing in the middle of it, his soft-looking shoes darkening as the fabric swelled with moisture. “Come on, idiot,” he muttered, something sad and dark in his narrowed eyes, before entering the mouth of what was supposed to be the last stretch until the surface. Cringing, he stepped into the water and felt his socks immediately grow wet and slimy. He stared at the muck that ran past him, and when he looked up, Stan was standing in front of him, hand extended.

Eddie took it.

He was led through tunnel after tunnel, dragging their tired legs through shitty water, before the forgiving light of a sewer grate met his tired eyes. Immediately, hope flared through his body and he had a newfound determination to charge forward, practically skipping through the water passed Stan. He stared up at, oh god, the fucking sky, the sunset. His eyes grew watery with happiness, and he gripped at the blacktop, trying to pull himself up.

His total lack of upper body strength put a stick in his plans.

“Here, Eds, I’ll help,” came Stan’s voice from behind him, and Eddie could swear he sounded younger than before.

He tossed Richie's jacket into the real world before he pulled again, gripping at nothing but the asphalt, Stan’s long fingers gripping around his waist and helping him up. “Thanks, man,” Eddie grunted, wiggling through the tight squeeze that was their escape. Finally, his knees scrambled against the road and he was free, though his pant legs were sopping wet and his stomach was beginning to hurt again.

“Look at that fuckin’ sky, St-”

When he turned around, the sewer grate was empty, void of Stan’s comforting yellow glow. Eddie’s heart stopped, and he his lips parted as he glared into the gaping maw of blackless that sat before him. “Stan?” He called, waiting for the brunet’s head to pop up and meet his gaze.

He waited, but it never came.

_I’m staying dead, Eddie._

Stan had always been a good friend to Eddie. Even in death, Stan comforted him when he was alone, when he was frightened and abandoned. But, now, Eddie knew his friend’s last act of love had occurred, and he whispered _no_, truly feeling the loss that he'd practically skipped out of when they'd first learned of Stan's death.

“So, you’re gay? Like, for real gay?”

Richie rubbed at his bruised knuckles, staring at his hands instead of the squad of pissed native Californians standing in front of him. 

“Yeah, the whole she-bang,” he muttered, knowing his voice lacked his usual energy. “It’s not a new thing, not really-”

“It’s new to us!” Charlie exclaimed, and Richie finally looked up, feeling small under the older man’s gaze, betrayed by his annoyed tone when he'd expressed such affection and understanding the night before. “It’s new to your fanbase, the whole public, Rich! This could ruin you.”

“This could ruin us,” Anna, the second and most terrible of his three agents, added, the venom in her voice enough to kill an adult horse. She crossed her arms, ill-fitting business suit bunching up on her elbows, glaring at Richie like he’d just been found with meth or some shit. “Why the hell didn’t you open your stupid little mouth sooner? Are you that much of a fucking idiot, Tozier? Huh?”

He wanted to say yes, to admit defeat under Anna’s eyes, but for once in his life he felt like he couldn’t speak. He felt stupid, yeah, he was stupid, he was worthless and dumb, like the kid standing alone at an arcade, surrounded by prying eyes that were tearing him apart, piece by piece. All he could do was curl up on himself, like he did then, like he did now, listening to them scold him like a disobedient child, which he was, which was all he’d ever been.

Another twenty seven minutes of sharp remarks dragged on until Richie was let out of the shark tank, feeling eyes on him with every step he took. One of the Anna’s many assistants - so, by association, one of his assistants - Joey, escorted him to the lobby, calling him things like ‘Mr. Tozier’ and ‘sir’ and other things that made him feel wrong. He offered to get him coffee- Richie refused, and instead asked for what he needed- absolutely anything alcoholic.

“Sir, you can’t drive under the-”

“I’ll get an uber,” Richie deadpanned. 

“Sorry, Mr. Tozier, but I can’t on good conscience-”

Sighing and rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses, Richie shook his head. “Kid, don’t worry about it. Thanks anyway.”

So, he stalked out of the building, hands in his pockets, head down. The heat of the LA sun beat down on his back and for a moment, he regretted wearing black, but the complaint was fleeting as he realized how stupid it sounded.

He started his car, watching the lights flash twice before he opened the door and jumped in. The AC kicked on almost immediately, filling the car with the soft scent of linen, courtesy of the cheap air-freshener he’d bought at the dollar store that was clipped to one of the folds.

_Eddie stared at him, a triumphant smile on his face as he pushed against Richie’s hand. He wasn’t really trying to beat poor Eds, though-- the hilarious look on his stupid face was victory enough. He did a mock push, a laugh echoing from his throat, before he went cold turkey. Eddie bit his lip and slammed Richie’s fist against the table, a loud “AhHA!” sounding across the room._

_“Fuckin’ loser!” the shorter man celebrated, his eyes swollen with mirth. “That’s what you get for talkin’ shit, Trashmouth.”_

_He swallowed, meeting Eddie’s gaze, feeling his face begin to heat up._

_Then, Eddie leaned in._

_The air smelled of chinese food and something else- like clean laundry, a warm, yet cool smell. He looked down at the curious stare before him and felt his eyes fall on Eddie’s lips, the soft curves so familiar, so close, just like when they were kids. He was sure his face was beet red now, but he couldn’t move, he couldn’t quip or say anything._

_“Fuck you, bro,” Was all that Eddie whispered, voice quiet and amused. Then he leaned back, acting as if everything was normal, hopping into shots and conversation with the rest of the losers._

_His face was addicting. Tan, yet pale, frown lines ever-present, smile ones too. For the first time in 27 years, he remembered why he’d never dated._

He ripped the air freshener out and threw it on the floor, pulling out of his parking spot and stepping on the gas. He drove through the business-oriented side of town before reaching the highways. The sun was in his face, bouncing off the shiny surfaces of other cars, and he had to squint, catching a shadow in his rear view mirror, showing him something- no, someone, in his backseat.

“Eddie?”

There was blood dribbling down his chin, newly red in the afternoon light. He’d never seen it red, only black, black as ink. Richie was caught like a moth to a light. He gaped, before swallowing, shaking his head and clenching his eyes shut.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck!_” He spat, knuckles white as he pounded them against the steering wheel. “It’s not fucking real. He’s not real, he’s not real..”

He opened his eyes, and as he’d suspected, the Eddie-ghost was gone. 

His hands were shaking, one still bruised and cut from the night before. 

“He’s not real. He’s not real. He’s not r-r-”

A tsunami of emotion ran over him and before he knew it, a sob had grown and sprouted from his lips, ripping through his lungs like a shot to the heart. His vision grew blurry with blossoming tears that dripped like vines down his cheeks, fogging his glasses, making the crack in the glass even more pronounced.

He still hadn’t cleaned the blood out.

“Fuck,” he choked, and his hands were off the wheel, gripping at his face as he took the glasses off. He felt the car begin to swerve but he didn’t care, couldn’t care, not anymore. He was blind as a bat without his glasses, but he still took them off, staring down at the barrage of colors he could just barely recognize.

He split the glasses in half with a final, sickening crack.

What followed was an ear splitting screech of rubber against asphalt, horns honking indignantly, all just a cacophony of ringing sounds driving nails into his ears. He heard the oncoming vehicle that would hit him before it even rammed into the driver’s side of the car. His last thought gave him solace; Richie Tozier had never believed in Heaven, but now, he prayed to God that he’d end up there, wrapping his arms around a lover he’d lost too soon.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed :)
> 
> Reddie Lives Matter (RLM)


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